


Making sense of things

by Beginte



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Things, Established Relationship, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Slice of Life, Witcher Senses, bathing as a form of bribery, but also some plot, tender wound patch jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25752199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: When it comes to the fine art of persuasion, nothing works a miracle on Geralt of Rivia quite like a decadent hot bath.Jaskier is a veritable alchemist of the bath at his point, sifting through salts and soaps and oils, adding a dab of this, the tiniest drop of that, composing the fragrant notes into the song that will be Geralt's sigh as he sinks into the water.4 times Geralt's witcher senses work just fine plus 1 time one sense fails him rather spectacularly.Or: Jaskier is part-fae and nobody has a clue. Especially not Jaskier. Or Geralt, for that matter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 144
Kudos: 1437
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Making sense of things

_**1\. Touch** _

Spring sings across the land, and Jaskier sings right back.

The Continent has well and truly stirred, and everything is green and flush with life; birds sing, rivers overflow their banks, fat with the last of the snowmelt giving way in the far-off mountains, and Jaskier takes off his boots to joyously wade through the wetlands.

Geralt boringly remains on dry land, but Jaskier can see the comfortable hint of a smile, the leisurely looseness of his shoulders and his stride as he leads Roach by the reins.

A lush meadow stretches as far as the eye can see, galaxies of buttercups and forget-me-nots scattered and clustered among the tall green blades, and Jaskier gasps in delight. It takes only minimal wheedling to coax Geralt into stopping – possibly relinquishing the rest of the day's travel time to set up camp already, if Jaskier plays his cards right.

However, it immediately turns out just why it took so little wheedling. And so, for the next half hour they collect flowers and other plants that Geralt claims will be useful for potions.

Still – the sun is shining, the cool breeze tugs through the air, the flowers rustle in the tall blades of grass, and nearby flocks of waterfowl enjoy the bonanza of an impromptu wetland.

Geralt sits in the grass and begins sorting the plants, mortar and pestle ready by his side along with a pouch of empty bottles. Jaskier dumps his own harvest beside him, and then flings himself onto his back in the grass behind Geralt, props his feet up on Geralt's shoulders.

"Ah, this is the life!" he sighs happily, reaching for a handful of flowers to start weaving a crown. "I'm telling you, Geralt: this is the life. Sun shining, rivers flowing, and the whole world fresh and gleaming with promise, just waiting for us to go wherever we please!"

"Your feet smell," grunts the light of Jaskier's entire life.

"Lies and slander!" exclaims Jaskier and nudges Geralt's ear with one foot for good measure. "I walked barefoot half a mile in fresh floodwater full of grass and flowers!"

"They smell like mud and frogs."

Now, this gives Jaskier pause, because—

"Huh. What _do_ frogs smell like? And I swear, Geralt, if you say _'like frogs'_ , I will sing _Toss a coin_ ten times in a row."

When he tips his head sideways, he can just make out a vague angle of Geralt's cheek rounding out in a smile.

"They smell like river water and silt," says Geralt, hands working with practised ease, plucking flowers and leaves off stems; the mortar and pestle scrape and click. "And seagrass."

"Huh," says Jaskier again, weaving another buttercup into the crown.

When it's done, he puts it on his head, sits up beside Geralt, and helps him pluck.

"Oi," Geralt clicks his tongue at Roach when she pilfers from one of their sorted stacks; she huffs, rightly offended, and turns her backside on him to crop a patch of grass.

They only have one mortar, so Jaskier plucks while Geralt grinds lovely flowers into a useful pulp and scoops it into jars and bottles. Jaskier's work goes much quicker, with Geralt only halfway through by the time everything is plucked and sorted, so Jaskier shuffles closer and behind Geralt again, and gently pulls the tie out of his hair.

"Hmm," says Geralt when Jaskier's fingers card through silver strands, gentling out the starting tangles.

There's a comb in one of Roach's saddle bags, and it's a nice comb too: sturdy bone polished away into elegant shapes, with teeth spaced just right, wide enough to glide through Geralt's hair. It's why Jaskier picked it, after all. The elegant dandelion design on the handle was an added bonus.

But Roach is grazing out of reach, and Jaskier doesn't want to get up, so he continues dragging his fingers through Geralt's hair. He strokes until the glide is smooth and easy, gathering from the temples, pulling gently back.

Insects chirp in the grass; Geralt's hands slow in their work, movements languid, losing the roughness of purpose.

Jaskier singles out several sections, begins to weave them together, gathering high on the top of Geralt's head, and starts forming a plait. He strokes Geralt's temples and weaves the hair from there into the plait, piling up the strands with practise that comes from hours and hours of repetition added together over the years. He secures the plait with the tie, the overall effect similar to the way Geralt usually gathers half of his hair to keep his face clear, but the intricacy of the plait shows and makes it so much lovelier, in Jaskier's opinion.

Most of all, it shows how cared for Geralt is.

He plucks a few buttercups and forget-me-nots that he'd set aside and tucks them into the weaves of the plait.

"There," he whispers into Geralt's ear from behind, kisses the shell.

Geralt hums, loose and lazy with the sun and Jaskier's touch; Jaskier shuffles beside him again, and lies down in the grass, twirling a single buttercup in his fingers.

* * *

The buttercups and forget-me-nots are still woven into Geralt's hair the next day, when they reach the village they were supposed to reach last nightfall. Jaskier's plaits hold nicely, and if the villagers notice at all, they don't say anything about it, because they have bigger things on their minds.

Their village has been under recurring attacks from a wyvern for the past three days, the creature flying in every noon, wreaking havoc in the streets and grabbing anyone who wasn't quick enough to hide indoors. Geralt is intrigued, because even Jaskier knows this isn't typical wyvern behaviour. Additionally, the closest wyvern population is a while away, in the remnants of an ancient gorge, well removed from the village.

It takes Geralt precisely twenty minutes to work out what's the source of the problem. The village alderman's idiot son decided to appeal to the girl of his dreams by advertising his masculinity, and what better way to do that than by sneaking into a wyvern's nest and stealing one of its eggs to offer to her as a token of his affections. The wyvern reacted in the only reasonable way a wyvern could react and pursued the matter forcefully.

Further investigation revealed that frightened, the girl took the egg out of the village last night and left it in a nearby patch of woods for the wyvern to reclaim, never mind that it's not at all the creature's territory and that it would have no way of knowing the egg had been relocated. At least the girl is remorseful, genuinely concerned about the wyvern as well as her village and, crying, she takes them to the woods to show them where she'd left the egg.

"I'm sorry," she says, wringing out her hands. "I didn't know what to do!"

Geralt sighs, gingerly lifting the egg off the bed of moss where it's left quite an imprint.

"Not your fault," he says. "Go home."

"And you might think twice about accepting him, seeing as I hear marriage is supposed to bring security and all," adds Jaskier, offering her a handkerchief to dry her tears.

The girl rushes back to the village and Geralt inspects the egg, tracing a hand over its surface, searching for cracks. He holds it securely yet carefully, like one would a small child, and Jaskier swallows, his turn to wring his hands as he itches to reach out and touch the shell too, to search for signs from the little creature inside. His heart flutters with worry.

"Is it..." He swallows, watching the grim set of Geralt's brow. "Is it all right?"

Geralt hmms and then tilts his head, brings the egg up and presses his ear against it, eyes half-lidded in concentration; Jaskier holds his breath.

"Yeah," Geralt finally says, straightening up. "I can hear it inside."

"Oh, whew!" breathes Jaskier, trying to hide the watery feeling in his eyes under a layer of theatrics. Geralt looks at him knowingly, not at all fooled, and his lips turn ever so slightly in a fond smile as he gently cradles the egg.

"Get my spare shirt out of my pack," he asks.

Once he's carefully wrapped the egg in the shirt, he takes most things out of the pack and places the egg inside, making sure to position it just so, each movement slow and composed of patience and care.

They head out of the little patch of woods and into the vast openness of grasslands again. When the canyon looms on the horizon, Geralt stops and turns to Jaskier.

"Stay here," he tells him, which Jaskier is one hundred per cent fine with.

Wyverns are _big_ , they have a temper, and he's seen them already; plus, he has the makings of a fantastically educational ballad fused with a cautionary tale here, so he's more than happy to lounge in a field of buttercups, sharing apples with Roach while he does some preliminary writing, and let Geralt do all the heavy lifting.

Geralt makes sure the pack is secure on his back, and then he takes Jaskier by the hand, stroking a thumb over an old scar left after an insignificant scrape that crosses his knuckles. He gives Jaskier a stern look.

"If there's any trouble..."

"I know, I know, hop up on Roach and leg it in a safe direction," says Jaskier. "What is this, my first day here?"

"Hmm," says Geralt, and lets go of Jaskier's hand to turn to Roach. "You're in charge," he tells her with a scratch behind her ear.

"Hey, now!" squawks Jaskier, but Roach answers Geralt with a quiet sound, and Geralt grins, patting her neck.

"Good girl," he says, and turns to walk away.

Jaskier spreads his arms wide with indignation.

"I want you to know that this is incredibly demeaning!" he calls out after Geralt's retreating back.

Geralt turns around, walking backwards for a few steps as he gives Jaskier a wave, and then he turns back around and keeps on walking towards the canyon. Jaskier smiles, sits on the grass, and watches the figure get smaller and smaller, until it disappears behind the slope of terrain.

Roach comes over to whuffle at his hair and he pats the roundness of her cheek, sends her off to graze on the lush bounty all around them. She settles nearby, swishing her tail, to work away at a patch of crunchy dandelions.

Jaskier likes contracts like these – when Geralt is off to put things right or find something out, not to do battle. When he not only comes back with all his blood on the inside, but with an ease in his bones and sometimes even a smile in the corners of his lips.

He pulls out his journal, sprawls on his back in the grass and buttercups, and begins to sketch out the frame and idea of the song, writing down the occasional verse that strays his way.

The sun warms his face; the old doublet rolled up under his head is soft and smells like Geralt with a tang of Roach's hair. His eyelids grow heavy with afternoon laziness as his pen slows over the pages. Birdsong drifts in and out of the air. Roach keeps nipping at the grass.

His eyes begin to sting when he tries to keep them open, so he sinks further into the grass and puts the journal on his face to block out the sun.

Just for a little while.

* * *

He stirs when he hears a familiar rumble and feels the journal being slowly lifted off his face; the sun has moved across the sky, and in the pooling frame of its light he can see Geralt's face close to his, lips turned up in a smile, golden eyes fond under raised eyebrows.

"This is why I leave Roach in charge," Geralt tells him, voice rich with amusement, and Jaskier's sleepy brain wants to burrow in it like in finest velvets. "You sleep like the dead. I could go through your pockets and you'd never notice."

"Psshhh," says Jaskier dismissively, though he rubs a hand over his eyes and stretches the sleep from his muscles. "I just knew it was you, and my finely-attuned senses don't register you as a threat. Also, I don't know who should be more offended, you or me, at the suggestion that your hand down my pocket would do nothing for me."

Geralt rumbles a laugh and presses a kiss to Jaskier's lips. It's firm and insistent, leaving Jaskier rather immediately awake; he sits up, pushes against Geralt, and Geralt goes easily, allowing Jaskier to roll them over and push him onto the grass. They tussle for a while, Jaskier squirming when Geralt wraps an arm around his waist, until Geralt grunts and hisses, promptly leading Jaskier to discover a neat but rather lengthy gash down his left side.

Jaskier shepherds Geralt into sitting up and removing his armour and shirt while he fetches the necessary supplies from Roach's saddlebag: needle and stitches, gauze, bandages, and a jar of boiled-clean water.

"It's fine," Geralt protests. "Doesn't even hurt."

Jaskier believes him – the mutations have augmented Geralt's sense of touch to dull down the ability to feel pain. This sort of wound probably stings uncomfortably, but not much more. But the thing is, just because Geralt's discomfort is small, it doesn't mean is has to remain neglected. Uncared for.

"It can still get infected though, so hush," says Jaskier, sitting down in a way that will give him as good an angle as possible.

He cleans the wound, pours water over it until the last speck of dirt is washed out and all that remains is the red of Geralt's blood still welling up, though slower now. The thread of the stitch slips through Geralt's flesh, and Jaskier murmurs soothing nothings into the closing skin of the wound, even though Geralt doesn't twitch or likely feel more than an itch. But he doesn't stop Jaskier either; instead, he closes his eyes as Jaskier tucks the softness and the whispers into the wound.

Jaskier's hands are skilled and practised, his fingers moving with precision and steadiness that comes from ease. Geralt is right, he would have been fine without the stitches, would have survived infection if it happened.

But there's more to life than just necessity, and that's the point of Jaskier's existence. There's joy and beauty and art and comfort. So Jaskier stitches the wound even though he doesn't have to.

And now, with the stitches, the monster will only be half of the story when a new scar settles into Geralt's skin. There will be the creature's claw, but there will also be Jaskier. Jaskier's care and love; the babble of the brook, the warmth of the spring sun; their knees knocking together in easy companionship as they sit on a rock.

Jaskier tucks the moment into the stitches, sews himself into Geralt's flesh. Decades will pass and one day, centuries from now, Geralt will still carry a part of Jaskier in this scar. And dare Jaskier say, it will be the best part of him – the part that cares loves and reaches out to give that care.

* * *

_**2\. Taste** _

A promise of snow trembles in the wind, and Geralt is keen to outrun it before it makes the mountain pass too, well, _impassable_. Jaskier is fine with that, though it does mean their stops in the smattering of northern villages are shorter, merely a night, maybe two if there's a contract which can be handled quickly enough. Most of their travel time is spent on the road.

Days are short and continue to shrink, and what sunlight peers over the land is usually hidden behind a blanket of grey clouds, the sky glaring a bright silver where it hides the sun. The road is covered with mud which squelches during daytime and freezes over into lumpy hardness as winter's first frosts grip it overnight.

Another thing the road is, is empty.

Winter has properly set in, and people have withdrawn into their homes, keeping the hearths going and caring for their pantries. Travel between towns is scarce, and between villages it's almost nonexistent.

This far north, Geralt and Jaskier are going on their fifth day without spotting a human.

Jaskier is fine with that. Yes, he thrives on an adoring audience, but the thrill of being on his way to winter at Kaer Morhen beats out any loss of cheering crowds. And anyway – Geralt is an appreciative audience when Jaskier sings quietly, just for the two of them at night, and he's plenty adoring all on his own. Despite the cold and the leaner rations and waking up stiff in all the wrong ways, there are nights when Jaskier feels quite spoiled.

So it just figures that the first human encounter in days is a shit one.

Daylight is beginning to wane, so Geralt goes off into the woods to kill their dinner while Jaskier stays behind to set up camp, not far from the road, and make the fire. He's just finished stacking the least damp sticks when out the corner of his eye he sees Roach rapidly lift her head and flick her ears. It's very much not how she greets Geralt.

Jaskier looks up from the unlit campfire to see three men approaching; their pace is lax, but there's surety of purpose in it. He leans back where he sits on a log, letting his fingers rest on the edge of his boot, near the dagger hidden there.

Roach stamps her hooves.

"Evening," says one of the men; he gestures at Roach. "Looks like you've got some nice supplies there."

"We do," says Jaskier, voice calm. "My companion is returning shortly with our supper. You're welcome to share it with us."

The man chuckles, shaking his head.

"Kind. But we have more, uh... material interests."

Jaskier was afraid he was going to say that. "We don't have much money."

The man scoffs, gestures at Jaskier with what looks like either a smallish sword or a very, very big dagger. "With that cloak? And that doublet? Seems like you've got plenty."

Ah, cruel is the day when Jaskier's superb fashion sense turns against him.

"Not to mention that fancy-looking lute. That'll fetch a fine price. You just sit there," says the man, coming closer, close enough to almost touch Jaskier's neck with the blade, "and my friends will take what we need, and no one has to get hurt."

One of the men yelps and swears when Roach snaps her teeth at his hand and prances in place, hooves stomping.

Jaskier moves on instinct, because no one is taking his lute or the last of the savings and potions he and Geralt have. He ducks, pulling his dagger out, and cuts the robber's leg as he rolls away.

"Fuck! You fucker!" hisses the man, and he lunges forward.

He's furious, and Jaskier is quick, so he manages to duck the next three swipes, but then one of the other two men charges, leaving his companion to deal with Roach; Jaskier jumps away, and straight into the path of that first blade as it slices up his arm.

He screams, but manages not to fall, and kicks the man's injured leg, just in time to roll away from the second man's incoming blow, but he knows he won't dodge the next—

At which point Geralt bursts out from the woods, running at full speed, drawing his steel blade; a slash, a scream, and the other man is down on the ground, red rapidly blooming across his chest, and Geralt _screams_.

"Geralt!" shouts Jaskier. "Geralt, no!"

The men don't fight back, terrified by the wrath of a witcher bearing down upon them, and Jaskier knows that Geralt would never forgive himself for killing someone who didn't fight back.

"Leave them! Just – ugh, think of the bodies, Geralt! I don't feel like digging."

Geralt stares at the two men on the ground and the third one standing terrified near Roach. He snarls, just for that extra scary effect.

"Fuck off," he tells them.

They don't need much convincing, picking up their moaning, bleeding comrade and fleeing as fast as they can. Geralt immediately turns to Jaskier.

"You're hurt," he says, a tremor in his voice. "You're bleeding— fuck, Jaskier, I can smell your blood."

He reaches out, hands gentle as they trace Jaskier's sides, handle his injured arm; pain pulsates into existence, and Jaskier hisses as it grows and grows, his own heartbeat throbbing in the open wound.

"Shh," says Geralt, although his teeth are clenched. "Let me see."

"Oh, fuck," moans Jaskier, tears brimming in his eyes, because fuck, this hurts!

"It's fine," Geralt tells him. "It's shallow enough. Move your fingers for me?"

Jaskier does; it hurts like a bitch, but all of them move just fine, and it seems to reassure Geralt.

"Go sit and—" Geralt pauses, frowns, then leans in to sniff the wound.

"Geralt? Oh, gods, you're sniffing, that's not good, sniffing is bad, it's poisoned, isn't it? Oh, fuck—"

"Jaskier," grunts Geralt. "It's not poisoned. But the blade is strange... Go sit on the log."

Jaskier does, on somewhat wobbly legs. Geralt goes to fetch healing supplies from Roach's bags; on his way, he bends to pick up the strange blade one of the bandits dropped. It's the one that cut Jaskier's arm. He sniffs it and then—

"Oh, did you just _lick that?!"_

"The blade is pure iron," Geralt tells him. "That's what smelled odd."

"Er... Thanks?"

"Hmm."

Geralt cleans his wound, treats it with a salve that brings abrupt relief, laying a layer of numbness over the pain. It isn't gone completely, but it feels much more distant, and Jaskier's breaths no longer burn in his lungs. When Geralt stitches the wound closed, Jaskier doesn't flinch, more than familiar with the process, albeit from the other end. Geralt stitches with meticulous care, and then bandages Jaskier's arm with gentle hands, helps him put the shirt and doublet back on, wraps him in both their cloaks, and then holds him for a while in a way that breaks Jaskier's heart just a little bit.

"Thank you," Jaskier mumbles, mouth full of wool because Geralt is a tight hugger.

Geralt grunts, and then gets up to fetch the pheasant he'd dropped running out of the woods.

Normally, Jaskier contributes to the generally icky dinner preparations by plucking the fowl (the least disgusting part of the whole process), but with Jaskier's wound fresh under the bandage, Geralt sits on a log and strips the dead bird of its feathers like it's personally done him wrong.

Jaskier picks up a couple of the resplendent tail feathers and toys with them idly, tests the sturdiness of the ends to see if they can be fashioned into quills. In deafening silence, Geralt rather aggressively guts the bird.

"Geralt?"

_Shlipp_ , goes the knife, and then _splat_ go the insides. Jaskier bites back a sigh.

"Geeeralt. Look at me."

Geralt does, although his mouth is set in a thin line.

"I'm fine. See?" Jaskier holds up both hands, makes a show of wiggling his fingers; true, a string of pain pulls inside the wound when he does it, tendons and muscles moving together, a harmony that stretches from the tips of his fingers, through his elbow, all the way to his shoulder, but it's fine. In fact, if he steeled his spine and drank a shot of something stronger for fortification, he could probably play a decent tavern set, or at least half one.

"Hmm," is all Geralt says, because of course it is.

Jaskier sighs.

"Look, I'm sorry I tried to fight them. But my lute is off limits. Also, it's not so bad, and I think I actually did fairly well, thank you for mentioning, by the way."

Geralt frowns at him. "It's not your fault you got hurt."

"Right," Jaskier immediately catches that thread, holds it tight and firm. "And neither is it yours."

Geralt looks caught for just a split second, and then he scowls and impales the pheasant on the spit, setting about roasting it with particular vindictiveness.

"Geralt."

"Mm."

"I'm fine. And you said it yourself, there was nothing iffy with the blade. I feel fine – in fact, I'll probably be able to play a few songs when we get to that inn. Make that extra bit of coin for spring."

"No," says Geralt, but his voice is soft. "You should rest your arm, give it time to heal. We'll be fine."

Jaskier sighs and gets up to sit down beside Geralt on the log, bump gently into his side.

"Geeeralt. Please, love – please don't do the self-blame thing. It makes _me_ feel guilty."

Geralt turns to look at him, and his brow slowly smoothes out from its pinched set into softness. It's a sad sort of softness though, so Jaskier nuzzles into Geralt's hand when he strokes his cheek, nudges it playfully with his nose. Geralt sighs.

"I'm not... I could have come back sooner, yes. But I'm not guilty. I'm angry. At them. For hurting you."

"Oh," says Jaskier. "Well, feel free to be angry, then, that's fine by me. Quite flattering, actually." He preens, just to make Geralt scoff and hide a smile, and it works. "Yes, an artist avenged by his muse – what a gorgeous tale! But, my dear, why _stay_ angry when they're long gone and I'm right here and I'm _all_ yours?"

Right on cue, his stomach rumbles, set off by the smell of the pheasant meat slowly beginning to roast.

"All yours after you feed me, that is," he says, and the hmm Geralt makes in return sounds a little less heavy; Jaskier counts that as a victory.

Carefully, testing the boundaries of pain in his wound, Jaskier searches through his pack and pulls out the precious bundle of pouches. They're small and filled with herbs – nothing extravagant, simply some salt, pepper, sage, and so on. He has a few dried juniper berries left, so he sprinkles those into the roast's cavity while Geralt holds it still over the fire.

It may not be much, but that tiny pinch of additional flavour counts for a lot on the road; Geralt had scoffed the first time Jaskier purchased spices especially for the road and said Jaskier will carry them if he wants to keep them. Still, that day Geralt ate his roasted fish with a flicker of... well, of something. Enjoyment, Jaskier had decided to call it.

He never mentioned Jaskier's spices again, but over the years Jaskier has caught him looking fond when Jaskier would spend a spare bit of coin on the tiny pouches of luxury.

They take the bird off the fire and pull the meat apart into bite-sized bits, burning their fingers and their mouths as they eat before the winter chill pulls all the heat out of their meal. They share the last of the strong, mulled wine they bought in the town they left days ago, their cheeks ruddy from the bite of winter in the air as much as from the drink. Above the horizon, the last of the daylight begins to dip away.

Pheasant meat; dark wine; woodsmoke blanketing the earthy note of rotten leaves; a promise of snow on the turning winds – that's the taste of winters in Jaskier's life, and he hums his pleasure as he leans against Geralt's side. Geralt grunts, like he's a little surprised by Jaskier's balmy good mood, probably considering the blood and robbers and all that, but he becomes soft where Jaskier is moulded into him, and he wraps an arm around Jaskier's back, fingers curling over the edge of Jaskier's waist, and rests his cheek on the top of Jaskier's head.

* * *

Over the next days, the wound becomes Geralt's obsession. He checks, frowns, prods, treats – it's nice, of course, very sweet and all, and Jaskier has long been saying that Geralt could do with a hobby other than polishing his swords and brushing down Roach and an annual spree at gwent, but hobbies are supposed to be relaxing, and the ticking muscle in Geralt's jaw is anything but.

Apparently, the wound is not healing as quickly as Geralt thinks it should. He maintains that there was no poison on the blade and that the wound is clean and stitching done right, but his mouth is a thin line whenever he changes Jaskier's dressing, which is twice a day.

Jaskier is no expert on the wounds of the human body – he's had a few cuts and scrapes in his adventurous life, but mostly of the tavern brawl or angry spouse variety. He's never had anything more serious than the gash currently sliced along his arm, and all his basis for comparison comes from patching up a fast-healing, recalcitrant old witcher, so he has no idea how his very human wound is doing, progress-wise.

"It should be healing faster," rumbles Geralt, frowning so hard at the wound that Jaskier almost expects to watch his flesh knit itself back together under the pressure of that disapproving glare. "I'm going to put more salve on it tonight."

"Eh," says Jaskier dismissively, poking at the skin around the wound: it's still slightly reddened, but not looking inflamed or about to turn gangrenous. "It's fine. Let's keep your magic salve for real emergencies."

"Hmm," says Geralt in a tone that tells Jaskier he can fully expect to have his arm slathered in healing salve as soon as he falls asleep tonight.

They make for the village – a cluster of houses nestled in a valley, slowly seeping ribbons of smoke visible in the pale slant of low-hanging winter sun. Their last stop before the ascent to Kaer Morhen, the last human outpost pushed as far into the Blue Mountains as they dare.

As such, the village is used to witchers passing through on their way up in the winter and then down in the spring, and its people look at Geralt with winter-weary indifference at worst, and with a smile and a gleam of happy recognition reserved for regular customers at best. Jaskier, on the other hand, is still a bit of a novelty in the village. For one thing, this far north a travelling bard is a rarity, especially this time of year, which tends to translate into eager reception, a packed tavern, and an amount of coin that is fairly generous for a village this size.

Another oddity about Jaskier is that he's blatantly the witcher's companion, a human off to winter with him up in the mythical keep of Kaer Morhen, which in a small, closely-kit community generates a lot of exotic gossip and speculation. Jaskier won't lie, he enjoys the looks he gets because of this. But this is his fifth time journeying to Kaer Morhen, and the sheen of mystery is well and truly wearing off for the locals. For some of them, like the innkeeper, it never was there at all – the first time she called him Geralt's 'young man', Geralt single-handedly laid to rest the rumour that witchers can't blush, guzzling the contents of his ale tankard with vigorous focus.

Geralt is the biggest creature of habit on the Continent, so it's not at all surprising that he has the same meal every single time they come to this inn before the final stretch of their journey.

What is interesting, however, is that this is not Geralt's usual tendency to choose the most drab yet filling option available because he's a witcher so what's the point of enjoying the finer things in life, blah blah blah. Oh, no, sir, this is Jaskier's witcher taking _pleasure_ in food, good and proper and of his own volition, because Jaskier knows from the innkeeper that Geralt has been ordering the same thing for two generations.

Geralt's dish of choice is not a hunk of meat or a veritable bucket of stew, but an omelette: thick and solid, the portion large and filling, and stuffed with black truffles. Small, ugly, stinky mushrooms that grow in severe northern winters and fetch horrendous prices further south on the Continent. Here, however, picked by the village inhabitants, they come cheap enough for Geralt to eat them in an omelette once every winter, which he does, with evident pleasure.

Personally, Jaskier is not a fan, plus he's seen too many aristocrats feign spasms of delight and talk pretentious nonsense. It seems, however, that for Geralt's witcher-sharp sense of taste the truffles are a treat: he eats slower than he usually would, chews thoughtfully, at ease in the quiet of a small inn where nobody glares at him. Geralt's enjoyment and the occasional quiet hum fill Jaskier with warmth more than the heartiest winter stew, and each year he feels like he eats twofold when he watches Geralt work through his omelette.

The smell of truffles is rich and pungent, dense enough to become flavour as it brushes past Jaskier's palate on the way to his lungs: an annual foretaste of Kaer Morhen. Across the table from Geralt, in an inn whipped by mountain-harsh winds, the taste of truffles grows on Jaskier winter after winter.

* * *

_**3\. Hearing** _

When it comes to the fine art of persuasion, nothing works a miracle on Geralt of Rivia quite like a decadent hot bath.

Jaskier is a veritable alchemist of the bath at his point, sifting through salts and soaps and oils, adding a dab of this, the tiniest drop of that, composing the fragrant notes into the song that will be Geralt's sigh as he sinks into the water.

And Geralt does sigh so delectably as he steps into Jaskier's latest masterpiece, resting back against Jaskier's chest and humming when Jaskier's arms wrap around him. Jaskier hums right back, nosing behind his ear, tangling their legs together underwater.

A relaxed Geralt is a thing of beauty, and even more so because he's only for Jaskier's eyes, letting his guard down as he allows himself to sink into the embrace of trust. His throat is exposed, that lovely broad chest moving slowly, the roundness of his shoulders soft in their looseness. Jaskier glides water over Geralt's arms, slips his hands under the bath's surface to follow the sides down to the square-cut simplicity of hips, flattens out his palms over the strong thighs, their meat soft with leisure as they fall sweetly open under Jaskier's touch.

Fuck, he should have become a sculptor instead, devoted his life to caressing marble into the loveliness of Geralt's shapes. He wonders if it's too late to change careers.

Geralt hums, resting a hand on Jaskier's knee where its top sticks out of the water by Geralt's side, and he rubs a thumb over it.

"There, now," purrs Jaskier, tucking a strand of wet hair behind Geralt's ear. "This is nice, isn't it?"

"Very," rumbles Geralt. "What do you want, Jaskier?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's the favour you're trying to work me into?"

"I try to be nice!" Jaskier throws his hands up in an arc of water and indignation. "I try to be nice, but does the boorish witcher appreciate it? Nooo!"

"Hmm," says Geralt, taking Jaskier by the wrists and guiding his arms to wrap around him again, Jaskier's hands resting on Geralt's chest where he immediately toys with the wolf medallion. "Fine," grunts Geralt. "What is this... completely altruistic good deed absolutely _not_ related to?"

"Well, since you insist..." grouses Jaskier, twirling his finger to gather loops of wet silver chain. "Coincidentally and completely without relation to your lovely bath, for which you're welcome, by the way... a certain lord is throwing a banquet to celebrate the fact that his wife has put up with his company for twenty-five years, and he's asked personally for my services. Tonight, as it happens. If you'd like to come with me."

Geralt hmms again, the tone of it decidedly tilted towards the 'no' end of the scale. A challenge! Jaskier does so love a challenge.

"Think about it," he says, his lips brushing the shell of Geralt's ear. "A handsome pay for a few hours of fine food and wine, some noble tedium, yes, but after that... hmm, after _that_..."

Geralt's chest falls a little deeper, rises a little fuller.

"What, Jaskier?" His aim for irritation falls way off, landing on eagerness instead, and Jaskier drags his smile against Geralt's ear.

"Well, since you're interested," he says, water sloshing in the stone-tiled quiet of the room as he reaches for a bar of soap to turn it over and over in his hands, let suds drip onto Geralt's chest where he watches his fingers, transfixed. "After that, we get a room at the manor. A nice, quiet room. Soft bed. _Big bed_." He puts the soap away, sinks his hands underwater and runs them up the hair-coarse tops of Geralt's thighs. "Lots of possibilities. Stone walls. Privacy."

He strokes up the insides of Geralt's thighs, and Geralt reacts beautifully, spine arching just a little against Jaskier's chest.

"No one to hear me when you have your way with me," he says, and then he lowers his voice to a whisper, because human or not, he can feel the need pulling tight across Geralt's skin. "...and no one to hear when I have my way with _you_."

"Fuck," spits Geralt, letting his head fall back on Jaskier's shoulder where Jaskier grins and kisses the side of his chin only to gently bite on it next. "Fine. Just – fine."

Water crashes and cascades like a waterfall, sloshing out of the tub when Geralt stands, thus putting the lovely bounty of his bottom directly in Jaskier's line of sight. Fuck, he definitely should have become a sculptor. He'd work in clay though – dig his fingers into it, feel its malleable nature and the solidity of resistance at its core, push and knead it and weep as he tries to recreate these lovely, lovely shapes—

"Wha— where, what?" he complains when the lovely bottom moves away, Geralt stepping out of the tub. "Just where do you think you're going?"

Geralt's lips curl into a smirk as he gives Jaskier a look over his shoulder, and really, the nerve on his witcher, choosing now of all times to be a minx!

"You said it was tonight. Best save your energy for your performance."

"Oh-ho-ho, believe me," says Jaskier, gripping the edges of the tub until his knuckles turn white. "I'll _give_ you a performance."

"Wouldn't want to be late, then."

Un-fucking-believable.

Still, not a total loss – Geralt has a very, very lovely way of handling Jaskier with the bath sheet, a delicious amount of too rough, all sharp tugs of cotton fabric over wet skin, and Jaskier is always happy to be subjected to the treatment.

And getting Geralt into that nice set of clothes he'd got for him is always fun – comely as Geralt is in his favourite black ensemble, the set Jaskier had obtained for him suits him well. It's a subtle dash of colour with its deep blues and dusty silvers, yet subdued enough to keep Geralt at ease as he performs his favourite party trick of attempting to blend into the walls and pretending no one is looking at him.

The lord has a reputation of a fairly decent and well-paying sort on the bardic grapevine, and amazingly enough, Jaskier hasn't slept with anyone in his family, which does tend to put a certain difficulty on the matter of payment. One never knows about the guests though, and sure enough, one husband glares daggers in Jaskier's direction before the entertainment even starts, but Geralt's scowl keeps him at bay.

"See?" says Jaskier smugly. "You're hard at work."

"Hmm," says Geralt, and something in his tone makes Jaskier abandon scanning the room and glance at him instead – and there it is, an unmistakable smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Oh, you have a dirty mind, my dear," cackles Jaskier, to which Geralt unabashedly shrugs.

"Your fault."

"Why, thank you!"

"That's not how I meant it."

"No, too late – I need to see to the band and make sure the arrangements are just right!"

Jaskier swans off with one brief spin on his heel, throwing a wink at Geralt before he properly gives his attention to the hired band.

Looks like Geralt's idea of tonight's entertainment is playing a game of who can rile whom up first, and oh, Jaskier is more than willing to play. Because see, there's something Geralt has not taken into consideration – namely, the fact that Jaskier plays dirty. Pun fully intended.

Having inspected and tuned the band, Jaskier takes his place beside the stand while the lord delivers the customary speech about the wonders of his wife and their marriage. He genuinely seems to love her, but well-balanced speeches are clearly not his forte, and he does go on a bit, bless him, so Jaskier instead looks to his side where he finds Geralt standing patiently, just about ten feet away.

"You look very nice tonight," Jaskier murmurs – too quiet for any human to hear, but Geralt's witcher hearing picks it up just fine, golden eyes flashing his way. Jaskier smiles. "Don't get me wrong, my dear, you always look lovely – but a bit of colour is wonderful on you from time to time. And yet as lovely as you look, I can't wait to take this tunic off you..."

Geralt frowns, a muscle ticking in his jaw; he subtly shifts his stance, and indeed, he's well on the way to being hard at work. Jaskier bites his lip.

"Hmm, let's see... I can tell I'm plucking at your nerves, but honestly, you've brought this on yourself, my darling, and now you have to wait your turn. Oh – you could hold me down and have your way with me, nice and rough... or I could ride you, and you can hold me by the hips, dig your fingers in, press hard enough to leave bruises... but I think what you really want today, what you're positively dying for tonight, is for me to open you up, stretch you nice and good, and then fuck you good and slow and deep."

Geralt spins around to face the drinks table and rather violently pours himself some punch. Jaskier grins.

He leaves Geralt with that thought, lets it linger and build in his mind, and when the lord finally winds down, he hops up onto the stand and launches into the first song of the set.

Jaskier enjoys sex in all sorts of ways and configurations, but if they were to look at things mathematically, Geralt does top decidedly more often when they go about having sex in this particular way. And it is always exquisite. But sometimes Geralt likes to bottom too, either playful or eager for tenderness, and Jaskier does love to bed him like this, tease him just enough to make him glare and squirm, and take excellent care of him, give him all he needs and then more, pushing lovely noises out of him. And it looks like he'll get to do it tonight.

He sings, twirls across the room, lets the music carry him, fill his lungs and ring in his blood; he loves his craft, he loves stirring people into tears and dance and laughter, and he hops up onto the bandstand and spins, drinking in the joy of people clapping and dancing, filling the room with their own delight.

By the time he's finished the set he's breathing fast, his heart pounding in his chest; when he seeks Geralt out again, he finds him watching with fondness on his face and a brightness in his eyes.

The band plays without him for a while, a softer, background music – time for the guests to mingle and socialise. Jaskier helps himself to the drinks, lets a good ale cool him off and relax him again. He finds Geralt halfway across the room, by a less-frequented drinks table, and as he runs a hand through his hair he knows he has Geralt's attention, can see it in every line of his body.

And well. Jaskier promised him a performance. And he's always taken pride in knowing how to tie off a performance with a good finish.

"Just one more set," he murmurs into the air like velvet, sees Geralt twitch in a sure sign he's listening. "Just one more set and we're done for the night. And then... then I will take you to bed."

He busies briefly with his lute strings, tunes them just right. Geralt's eyes burn his fingertips.

"I want to take my time with you tonight. Lay you out on the bed like the feast you are – gods, Geralt, you look so pretty on your back, so bold and so sweet, with one knee bent just so, the way you watch me... I could keep looking forever, but I can't, because I need to _touch_..."

He drags one finger along a string, the line taut and pushing back into his flesh, and when he looks up through his lashes, Geralt is watching, a goblet clutched tight in his fist. Jaskier smiles, catches his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Oh, I'm going to take my time with you tonight, my love. Don't get me wrong, I do like it urgent and fast and heady, that's magnificent too, but tonight I think I'm in the mood to _lavish_ you. Start nice and slow – I want to kiss every inch of those lovely thighs before I even touch the oil, before I even press that first bit of finger inside you..."

He can see Geralt's fist crush the metal goblet, can see his lips form _Jaskier_ , and even though he doesn't have Geralt's hearing he can still feel a phantom of the growl in his ears.

Well, all right, there may be a slight backfire issue, because Jaskier's clothes are exquisitely tailored, and performing (musically, that is) while half-hard is a bit of a challenge, but it's not like Jaskier's never done that before. He's a consummate professional, after all.

So he sings and flashes his eyes at Geralt whenever he spins and twirls and sways. Geralt's eyes follow him across the room, and by the time Jaskier is finally, blessedly done, the flush on his cheeks is only partly due to exertion.

He takes a bow, reaps the harvest of applause, thanks the band, and makes for the drinks again, happy to discover a plethora of options expensively filled with crushed ice.

Geralt crowds into his side in a matter of seconds.

"Say goodnight, Jaskier," he growls, dark and decadent and demanding.

"Hmm?" asks Jaskier, blinking innocently like he didn't spend an evening well aware that Geralt could hear every piece of filth that slipped from his mouth.

And then, because he's never been accused of even a shred of self-preservation, he picks up a luscious, ripe, glossy-red cherry, takes it in his teeth, and slowly pulls it off its stem.

_Snap_ , goes the stem and also something delicious behind Geralt's eyes.

"You are insufferable," growls Geralt, crowding into him again, and Jaskier grins, giddily allows himself to be backed away towards a doorway.

Sometimes Geralt wants to be had, and sometimes he's ravenous and riled-up and demanding, but the two converge so rarely that it feels like some astronomical event when it happens, centuries in the making. And on-ho-ho, looks like Jaskier's stars are getting aligned tonight.

On the stone steps leading deeper into the manor, barely out of sight and still caught in the slant of light cast by the ballroom, Geralt pushes him against a wall, kisses him rough and needy and hard, but there's no mistaking the need, the way he opens his mouth for plunder, the way he works Jaskier's thigh to press between his own, spreading them apart. Jaskier flicks through the mental catalogue of things he and Geralt have got up to in the bedroom (and on the bedroll), and delightfully realises Geralt has never ridden him before.

Well, then.

Jaskier kisses him right back, a little filthier than he normally might when still technically on the payroll.

"Mm, you're in a hurry," he hums, letting his hand wander down to palm the outrageously perfect swell of arse.

Geralt isn't really taller than him, not properly – just one measly inch, but now he lifts his chin and milks that inch for all it's worth as he arches an eyebrow.

"Problem?" he asks, a delicious bait that Jaskier rises to with delight.

"For me? None at all, my dear. But it might be for you," he says and finally squeezes a handful of that lovely, lovely arse; Geralt grunts, and Jaskier lets his smile drag slow. "I have no intentions of making this quick."

* * *

**_4\. Sight_ **

Heatwave rolls sweltering across the Continent. The air is still like the dead calm at sea which drives sailors mad, not a breeze stirring for days on end. The sun blazes white-hot in the sky, pushing people into whatever scraps of shade can be found during the day. Nights are filled with groans as people toss and turn on sweat-soaked bedding, unable to sleep, the heat no less stifling in the dark. Time drags and stretches like molasses, all life too exhausted and moving as little as possible; dogs nap the days away instead of barking at strangers; insects buzz listless in the grass and are quick to land; all life is weary, breathing the heat, and waiting for the rains to come.

And the rain is not in a hurry this year; thunder occasionally rolls in the night, but always far and never followed by water or even a quiver of air.

All in all, not a good weather for barding. People don’t feel like music, tempers scraped raw to reveal irritation crawling just beneath the surface, nerves fraying (and frying) in the heat as humidity hangs in the air and sticks to skin. So – all things considered, Jaskier tries not to take it too much to heart. And frankly, just thinking about performing a set in this heat is exhausting.

Not a good weather for witchering either – even the monsters seem to have burrowed away to wait out the heat. A cockatrice over a week ago had been Geralt’s sole contract this month, and it didn’t pay well.

It’s not the first time he and Geralt have been without money, and it definitely won’t be the last. Villages are listless, and so they take their time travelling between them, because at least there’s fish in the streams, rabbits in the woods, and berries in ditches along the road.

"We'll be passing near Tretogor," says Geralt, Jaskier's darling subscriber to the out-of-the-blue school of conversation.

"All right?" tries Jaskier. "And?"

"It's got a palace. Some noble mansions."

Ah, they're taking the scenic route to the point, it seems. Jaskier is fine with that, because frankly, Geralt beating about the bush is a magnificent process to behold, if only because he's so gloriously bad at it.

"Indeed it does."

Geralt sighs; Jaskier examines a rough bit of skin next to a fingernail.

"They're made of stone. Good quality."

Right. There's precisely zero chance Geralt wants to discuss the finer points of Redanian masonry and architecture, but two can play this game.

"I'm sure they are."

Another sigh, about three pounds heavier than the previous one.

"Nice and... cool. Good in this kind of heat. Cool enough for parties. They probably want bards."

Ah, there it is, a glimmer of purpose skirting over the horizon. Thoroughly misguided though it is, but that's Jaskier's sweet, tender-hearted witcher.

"My dear," says Jaskier, linking his arm through Geralt's; the witcher-slow heartbeat makes him run just a little bit cooler, just enough for the touch to be pleasant despite Jaskier's general stickiness. "I appreciate what you're doing, and it's chivalrous to the point of nausea, but you see, the thing is, I am precisely where I want to be. Where you are, I am, and there I always wish to be."

"Hmm" is all Geralt says, but the edges of it are rough with feeling, and he slips his arm out of the crook of Jaskier's elbow to curl it around Jaskier's waist, pull him flush against his side.

Jaskier muffles his laughter into Geralt's shoulder, and for a moment the heat ebbs away, unimportant where Geralt's fingers press into Jaskier's flesh through the thin chemise, where Jaskier's joy spills into Geralt's hair.

Because Geralt holds him close and keeps him precisely where Jaskier belongs – by Geralt's side.

Jaskier rummages through all the pockets he owns and scrapes together all the small change he has tucked away in them. A coin here, a coin there – not much by themselves, but in an hour of need they can add up to just enough to offer something nice. Like two mugs of cool ale on a sweltering hot day.

(Geralt calls it squirreling, which Jaskier is going to go ahead and consider a compliment about foresight and whatnot, rather than a remark about attention span, thank you.)

"Come on," he says, tugging on Geralt's hand when a village looms ahead, drowning in midday sunlight and devoid of life.

Geralt grunts, but doesn't put up resistance.

"No money for lunch," he reminds Jaskier. "And likely no contracts."

"Well, I may have just enough for a small treat," hums Jaskier, pulling him along. "And you never know, maybe there's something nice and terrible for you to kill. And the stables definitely have some nice shade for Roach."

It's the horse-based emotional blackmail that gets him, because of course it is, and so they make their way into the village.

The dirt streets are dry, dust kicking up under their feet and hanging long in the air behind them; there's nobody around save for a local senior who sits in a doorway, warming his bones in the sun; he glares at Geralt with mistrust and mutters something under his breath that Jaskier very much tries not to hear. The noticeboard is blank, as Geralt predicted, heat stifling out all activity, even offers of old furniture for sale and labour for hire, let alone monsters for slaying.

Well. At least they can have that ale.

In the tavern, scant patrons peer dully into their glasses, quiet and barely breathing in the heat. The tavern keeper sits listless behind the counter, pressing a wet cloth to the back of his neck.

"No," he says when they enter, makes unwelcoming motions with his hand. "No witcher scum allowed here."

Rot blares in Jaskier's chest. It burns, it crawls up his throat, it pulls everything inwards and numbs it away.

A fly lands on a half-eaten piece of bread, weary with the heat.

"Fuck you," is all Jaskier says to the man, and then he takes Geralt by the hand and pulls him out of this fucking tavern, down the road, and out of the village, out, out, _out_.

He only feels like he can breathe again after they cross outside the wooden fence surrounding the village.

Fuck them. Fuck that man. Fuck his rotten, oozing, blistered soul. Something stirs deep within Jaskier, wishing for words, words that don't belong to humans and which would bring Chaos smothering down on the ugliness of that man and boil it away.

He realises there are tears in his eyes when the path blurs and he feels Geralt pull on his hand.

Geralt. Geralt who is kind and sweet and so fiercely loyal and brave it takes Jaskier's breath away, like a stray knight from tales of forgotten times. Geralt who walks the world and faces monsters, human as often as creature, and bears the brunt of their rage. Geralt who listens to children when they're trying to say something, half-dozes when Jaskier plaits flowers in his hair, sneaks payment back to people who can't afford it, offers scraps of food to dogs that cross his path.

Geralt who looks at him with patient eyes, who reaches out to cup Jaskier's cheek and thumb a spilling tear away.

"Fuck them, Geralt," says Jaskier, his voice hoarse and sticky with swallowed tears as the thumps his forehead onto Geralt's chest. "Fuck their mean, tiny minds and their bigotry and their greed. Fuck them with a rusty pitchfork."

Geralt snorts at that, his hand resting on the back of Jaskier's neck, thumb brushing back and forth.

Jaskier lifts his head, looks in Geralt's eyes – kind, patient, loving eyes – and kisses the tip of his nose. Bile still lingers in his throat.

"I'll write you a thousand songs. Come on."

He turns and starts walking, isn't sure he's willing to let Geralt say something (something like _"It doesn't matter"_ , because Jaskier cannot, _cannot_ hear him say that or his heart will break), and breathes more easily when Geralt follows, walks beside him.

Roach's hooves click an even, soft beat-and-scrape on the dusty road. It's almost enough to lull Jaskier, but it isn't. His throat still quivers with the ugliness and with something that cuts the strings of his ability to rage.

Like in the air, the charge can't come. No lightning to rip through the tension and no storm to wash it away into relief. So the bitterness stays, unmoved, and festers inside Jaskier's chest, sticks in his throat, but never implodes.

Geralt sighs beside him, and then an arm encircles Jaskier's shoulders and pulls him close.

"It's fine, Jaskier."

And fuck, now _Geralt_ is comforting _him_. Jaskier faces him with a twitch of a crooked smile.

"No, it's not. And you saying that just proves how wrong they are."

"It's just how it is, Jaskier," sighs Geralt, and Jaskier could fucking scream – except he can't. Instead, he sighs too, sticky and sweltering in the heat.

"And it's fucking _not right_."

"It doesn't ma—"

"No, _no_ , don't you _dare_ , don't you fucking _dare_ say it doesn't matter!" Jaskier's throat clenches, the burn of tears returning to his eyes. " _You matter_ , Geralt! You matter so much, and not just because you make the world better, which you _do_. You matter, and you're good and kind and you're _a person_. You matter."

"Jaskier." Geralt swallows, and then pulls him into a hug. "Thank you," he rumbles. "I just... I don't want you to be upset. Please. There's nothing I can do about them, so I just..." He shrugs, because Geralt doesn't lie, he won't tell Jaskier he doesn't care.

"Well." Jaskier pulls away, tucks a stray (and sweaty) strand of hair behind Geralt's ear. "There's something _I_ can do. I meant it, Geralt. A thousand songs."

Geralt's lips twitch. Jaskier's heart settles.

"A thousand songs!" he exclaims, less vigorously than he normally would, but he continues walking and Geralt falls into step beside him. "And they'll all be marvellous, mark my words."

"That'll take you a long time."

"Yeah, well, I'm not going anywhere."

His footsteps feel a little easier down the dusty road.

He slips his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the coins there. The metal is warm, but it carries a hint of freshness. The promise is still there. The potential for something nice. A small pleasure shared, just postponed a little.

Even though he still smarts, he knows tomorrow will be better. He will sleep and wake in Geralt's arms, and the world will be out there, full of thrills and wonder and possibilities and love. So much love, everywhere and in all shapes and forms, echoing through the world and drowning out the hate.

The thing is, Jaskier loves the world. And no ugliness will ever take that from him. Oh, sure, the ugliness hurts, because it always hurts, and he can't understand it, just like he couldn't understand the family he'd left behind.

With Geralt's steady presence by his side, Jaskier leaves the village behind as well.

The sun arcs over their Path and dips below the horizon. The air doesn't cool, but at least the sun doesn't scorch their skin, and it's as close to comfort as they'll get, so they take it.

Nightfall doesn't much change things. Not a single echo of a breeze stirs, and when they finally make camp, the earth gives off the day's heat, pushing away any coolness that may try to descend from the sky. They put up a tent – in the stifling air it won't make any difference for breathing, but it will give them peace from mosquitoes.

They both strip all the way down to their smallclothes, the warm air covering them like a sheet, yet there's something safe and pleasant in sleeping in a tent – a secluded pocket just for him and Geralt to tuck into. Away from... everything.

Thunder rolls in the distance, too far away to promise any hope of relief. In the dead still of the air sounds travel for miles, and Jaskier can hear the faraway, sky-confined storm, and the frogs striking up their concerto in a swamp a good while away. Crickets sporadically chirp in the grass, too hot to muster any more energy as they pass the long, stifling night.

Sleep flits in and out of his head in hazy, sweat-soaked flutters; Jaskier sighs as he rolls over in between these tugs of unconsciousness, never able to well and truly drop off into it.

Gods, he's miserably hot. The tent is pitch-dark, and he tries to be quiet as he blindly gropes his way to what he hopes is the waterskin.

"Here," a blissfully cool hand gently curls around Jaskier's wrist and guides his hand to take the offered waterskin.

In complete darkness, Jaskier brings it to his lips and drinks, slow and deep and needy; his lips feel chapped, his mouth parched and too hot, and he swallows his last sip with a sigh, putting the cork back in.

"Thanks," he whispers, holding the waterskin out blind, because he knows Geralt will take it and put it away.

"Hmm," says Geralt when he does just that, his voice barely louder than the faint rumble of distant thunder.

His hand brushes Jaskier's hair away, touches his forehead, and Jaskier closes his eyes and leans into the slightly cooler touch, his skin hot and clammy and seeking relief. Geralt's breath comes weighed down with a hint of concern, and as sweet as it is, Jaskier cracks his eyes open and smiles into the dark, because he knows Geralt can see him just fine.

Geralt leans in and kisses Jaskier's water-wet lips, his own just the slightest shade cooler in a way that makes Jaskier sigh happily. The kiss lasts and idles away into several, unhurried and lazy, lips moving softly in the dark, an occasional flick of tongue never leading anywhere further.

The thing about Geralt is, he's an exceptionally _lovely_ kisser. Give him a quiet moment with no monsters to slay and no expectations of a rough fuck, and Geralt melts and sinks, his kisses soft and, while maybe not innocent per se, absolutely sweet and cherished.

Jaskier could quite happily go on kissing him forever.

"Hmm," he says dreamily when Geralt pulls a little away only to come back for two more quick kisses, like he hasn't had quite enough. It makes Jaskier's heart tight and overflowing all at once. "You, my dear, have the loveliest kisses on the Continent."

Geralt scoffs, and Jaskier directs a stern look through near-complete darkness at where he can only just make out Geralt's eyes reflecting what scant light there is.

"You do," he says simply. "I mean it, Geralt." He brushes his thumb over what was supposed to be the corner of Geralt's mouth but feels more like his cheekbone; close enough. " _Lovely_ ," he emphasises.

He can't see Geralt's face, but he can feel it get just a touch warmer under his palm.

"Of course," he adds with a grin, "I will welcome any demonstrations in an attempt to convince me..."

He may not see Geralt' smile in the dark, but he can feel it sweet and clear when it's pressed against his own lips.

* * *

**_5\. Smell_ **

If Geralt thinks Jaskier is going to sit out an opportunity to see a proper haunted house, he's got another thing coming.

A derelict manor, abandoned decades ago by a noble family driven insane, is apparently filled with cursed items, malevolent wards, maybe even a spectre or two. The wealthy merchant who purchased the manor hired Geralt to go through the contents and destroy anything dangerous, and he even offered a lump sum for it. Smart man, not trying to get curse removal services on the cheap.

The villagers tell stories of treasure buried inside the walls, people stripped of their wits, screaming in torturous pain, or disappearing altogether.

This is _good_.

Also, Jaskier has an inherently curious nature (some might call it being nosy) and going through a houseful of other people's trinkets is as good a way to spend an afternoon as any. Not to mention this is basically an estate sale situation, minus the 'sale' part, because any item that hasn't got a deadly or horribly disfiguring curse on it is fair game, and Jaskier is nothing if not an opportunist.

Which is why he's mortally offended when Geralt tells him to stay behind.

Well. Strictly speaking, Geralt's exact words were, _"Stay with Roach."_ He did not specify Roach could not move. So Jaskier waits for what he considers a respectable amount of time, and then takes Roach by the reins and takes her on a little walk, which just happens to bring them to the gardens in front of the abandoned manor.

The gardens are overrun and tangling wildly, but not sinister enough for Jaskier's personal taste. However, the fact that there is only one path, quite obviously left by Geralt in the tall grass, is pleasingly spooky.

Roach tugs on the reins clasped in his hand, turning towards an apple tree bearing a bounty on its branches.

"Come on, my fair lady," coaxes Jaskier. "You can have all the apples you want in just a minute."

Geralt has no appreciation for Jaskier's inquisitive nature when Jaskier finds him on the sad remnants of a stone path.

"Dammit, Jaskier!" he growls. "I told you to stay with Roach!"

"And here she is!" Jaskier helpfully points to Roach who swishes her tail and turns her head haughtily away, trying to distance herself from this situation, which is a bit hurtful.

The look Geralt gives him makes him wonder if witchers can get aneurysms.

"Look, look," says Jaskier, reaching out, placating. "I'm here, and I've got your potions if you need a quick patch job. And I reckon, we don't know what's going to pop out of this house, so really, the safest place for me is by your side! Or, well, behind your back, I suppose."

Geralt shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together; Jaskier does a little wiggle, the one he knows Geralt has a soft spot for, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. It works its magic again.

"You keep behind me at all times," grates out Geralt, eyes hard on Jaskier's. "You don't go into a room until I'm done with it and tell you that you can go in. And _don't. Touch. Anything_. Not until I've handled it."

"Yep, yes, mm-hm, absolutely!" Jaskier criss-crosses his heart with his index finger. "Very happy with these terms."

"Hmm. Come on." Geralt turns to walk towards the manor.

Jaskier trots to catch up with Geralt and presses a kiss to his cheek. "I appreciate you indulging me, my dear," he murmurs, warm and honest, into Geralt's ear. "You are positively darling."

"Hmm," says Geralt again, but something that was bunched in his shoulders loosens, and his hand is gentle when he manoeuvres Jaskier behind his back.

The manor looms ahead atop a hill which crumbles ambitiously into something vaguely resembling a tiny cliff; in the sunlight and surrounded by abandoned greenery gone wild, it looks more sleepy than ominous, but the stillness in the air and the deceptiveness of outward appearances will make for a good opening for the song.

It takes Jaskier a moment to realise there is no birdsong in the trees.

Geralt pulling the half-decayed door open is disappointing for two reasons. First of all, there is no malevolent sense of evil vibrating in the air, which would be a nice verse or two in the song (Jaskier is going to write it anyway, he has an active and sublime imagination, thank you). Second of all, as soon as they cross the threshold, Jaskier sputters and coughs as the dense air filled with staleness, dust and decay is stirred for the first time in decades.

"Oh, Melitele's tits, what is this smell!" gags Jaskier, pulling out his handkerchief to press it over his mouth and nose. "Did something die in here?"

"Yeah. Him," says Geralt, pointing to mostly skeletal remains of a man covered in scraps of decayed cloth and dried-away flesh. He's crumpled up on the floor, and the way the body is curled in on itself and clutching a golden box doesn't suggest a peaceful end.

"Ah," says Jaskier. "So that would be a no-touch item."

"Hmm."

The thick carpet of dust is unmarred by any prints, human or animal; bits of it swirl into the air as Geralt walks further into the house, Jaskier following, careful to step in his footprints, because that skeleton really did _not_ look comfortable. Geralt locates the dining room, which would be spacious if it wasn't covered in garlands of cobwebs and dust, and he clears out the massive hearth; he tosses a few of the logs still stacked beside it and casts Igni to set it ablaze.

After that, he gets to work, following the hum of his medallion and locating cursed items in each room. Some he smashes with his steel sword, others with his silver-coated one; some he simply breaks by stomping on them or, in case of larger ones like statues, by blasting them with Aard; for some there are more elaborate rituals with words chanted, and some he scoops in a cloth he found, and carries them to the hearth where he throws them in the fire. Jaskier follows him around, making note of anything that's new in the proceedings.

He spots the music box as soon as Geralt tells him the room is clear.

It's sitting on a shelf, a curtain of dusted cobwebs strung over it and glittering in the dim sunlight filtering in through the dirty windows **.** It's glinting with tiny specks of incrusted gems, walls curved outwards in a bauble-like, opulent shape. The size is just right to promise to fill both hands, and Jaskier simply must pick it up, must cup it in his hands and _hold it_.

Must tilt open its lid and hear what music it plays.

He reaches out, pulls back the curtain of cobweb, and closes his hands around the ample shape.

Pain roars up his arms, dark magic tearing through his blood and ripping into his lungs, into his heart, and his throat scrapes raw as he screams.

And just as the world implodes, he hears:

"Jaskier!!!"

* * *

He vaguely knows he's awake, because his head is pounding, the ache stirring stronger and stronger as he drifts closer to consciousness, but not yet quite breaking the surface. Everything is still... muddy.

He almost tries to open his eyes, but he can't even _try_. Too hard. Too weak. His head aches like it's stuffed full of interrupted sleep, like it's barely gone four in the morning and Geralt is trying to nudge him awake because they have to make an early start to get somewhere by nightfall—

But it's not that. He knows he's not curled up on his bedroll, he knows he's not seeking more sleep and twisting himself into the blanket he and Geralt share. Because he remembers every single second of terror and pain, he remembers the fire and bile flooding his veins, filling his blood, flowing towards his heart, leaking into his lungs. He remembers screaming.

And he remembers Geralt screaming his name.

His head hurts _so much_... he still can't quite muster the strength to open his eyes. Maybe he isn't supposed to. He wonders if he's still dying or if he's in some mage's care and whatever they've dosed him with is unexpectedly wearing off. If he'll see his own blood and innards and a healer hard at work if he opens his eyes. He'd rather not.

It's daytime, he thinks, because there's a promise of light behind his eyelids. It isn't sharp though; it's gentle instead, like he isn't in direct sunlight. Feels like he's almost ready to open his eyes. He's also fairly sure he isn't still dying, after all.

There's no sensation of anyone doing anything to him, no poking about in his body, but that could be anaesthetics at work, so he doesn't try to pry his eyes open, not just yet. Instead, he tries to feel other things than the crackling throb of pain in his head.

He's... warm. But not in a feverish sort of way. He's on his back, and there's a cotton sheet under his fingers. When he breathes, there is no agony in his chest; the air flows easily, in and out, and it feels so sweet that Jaskier drifts a bit, just savouring breath after breath.

And then he hears humming.

A voice, soft and gentle and _familiar_ , is humming a melody he knows, and it takes him a loopy number of verses to realise it's one of his own, an early work about Geralt that never garnered the same popularity as _Toss a coin_ , but which Geralt always liked more.

Well. Geralt likes everything more than _Toss a coin_ , but still.

Light footsteps cross the room, the humming drifting away; small glass bottles tinkle delicately, perused with nimble fingers, and that's when Jaskier connects the voice with the tug of fondness in his chest.

With great effort he cracks his eyelids open, pries them apart to blurrily see a spacious room with walls of sandstone that gently disperse the light which slants in through a nearby window and casts Cirilla's moon-white hair in a glow.

_Dandelion cub_ , he means to say, because she cried the first time he called her that and then asked him to always do it, but all that comes out is, "Hmmh..."

So it might be true that couples who live together for a long time rub off on each other. (In more ways than one, at least.)

She turns, her lovely little face lighting up more than the sun outside, and she rushes towards him, hair flying behind her.

"You're awake!" she cheers, by his side in the blink of an eye (which, to be fair, in Jaskier's case is not that quick at present) and throwing her arms around him as she sits on the bedside.

"If you say so," he croaks out, and oh, good, at least his voice appears undamaged.

Ciri laughs a little where her nose is pressed to his chest, and he makes the inhuman effort to lift a hand and stroke her hair; ballads should be sung about the strength it took, honestly.

Her good mood and easy smiles soothe everything inside him – if he's with her, then he was in Yennefer's care, and if she's smiling, it means he'll be just fine. Even his headache throbs a little less. Gods, he's missed her, even though they parted ways just over a month ago, leaving her for summer and autumn by Yennefer's side to work on her magic skills, as they'd agreed almost a year ago now.

Ciri helps him sit up, piling pillows behind his back, and brings him a plate of biscuits, which she immediately steals from.

"Oi!" he calls out in indignation. "I am an injured man!"

"Yen said you might not be able to eat them all anyway," she says unabashedly, squeezing beside him onto the bed and shedding crumbs on his chest and the unfamiliar shirt he's wearing.

"I see, so you decided to be pre-emptive about this. Where's Geralt?" he asks, and carefully bites into a biscuit of his own.

Ciri sighs, chews slowly.

"Yen made him drink a potion to calm down. After we were done." She swallows, eyes flicking down. "When he brought you he was— I think... I think he thought you were going to die. And so did I. But then Yen said you'd be fine so long as we acted quickly."

The biscuit drags dry and coarse, uncomfortable on the way down Jaskier's suddenly tight throat. Fuck. _Geralt_... His heart clenches and screams, and Jaskier wants to stagger from the bed and find him and shake him awake, tell him it was all a nightmare and wrap him in his arms.

"So... what happened?" he asks and forces himself to take another biscuit.

"You got cursed. Yen says you touched something you shouldn't have."

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Very in-line with my... everything."

"I helped," Cir says, proud and excited. "Yen let me use my magic to hold your lungs open while she extracted the curse!"

Oh, fuck, no, he did not need this image.

"Ahhh... that's... that sounds incredibly difficult and very brave. Thank you, my dandelion cub," he says, affecting a courtly tone, and she giggles like the little child she should have had the chance to be.

"It was a little disgusting—" she wrinkles her nose, "—but also interesting."

"Yup. I'm sure."

"The curse affected your blood and lungs and it manifested as this sort of black ooze, but Yen pulled it all out."

She can have the rest of those biscuits. His appetite has fucked right off.

"I am very grateful to you both," he says, as steadily as he can manage while trying to combat visions of black slime being _pulled out_ of his lungs.

"You know," says Yennefer airily, striding into the room in a cloud of confidence and authority, "this feels awfully familiar. In fact, this is how we first met."

"What can I say, I'm sentimental." Jaskier bats his eyelashes at her, and she snorts.

"Next time let's commemorate it with flowers. And I think Geralt would prefer it that way too," she adds, pointed and piercing.

Jaskier's gaze drops, guilt throbbing again. Empathy wells up, the knowledge and imaginings of the pain and terror Geralt must have experienced stir, burn right there on the outskirts of his mind, and he clenches his teeth and pushes them away, because he can't, he can't, if he looks at Geralt's pain right now it will kill him.

"Noted," is all he says, and pretends to nibble on a biscuit; he won't be able to swallow.

When he looks up, Yennefer is looking at him sternly, mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Don't ever do that again, bard," she says, her voice tight, and Jaskier can't help but smile, can't help but be fond.

"You were worried," he coos.

She rolls her eyes. "Please."

"No, no – you were!"

"It's bad for business when a patient dies," she says, but there's no indifference in her voice.

Jaskier's heart has always been a sensitive thing, so he reaches out slowly, gives her time to withdraw before he takes her hand, squeezes it. _Thank you_. She squeezes back and smiles, small and crooked and awkward in a way that makes his own smile grow warmer.

It's okay that she doesn't say it out loud. He knows he has her friendship and that she was worried – and, lucky for them both, Jaskier is a veritable master at reading the silent types. And speaking of _his_ dearest silent type...

"So what did you give Geralt? And can I have some of that?"

Her lips twitch in a smirk.

"He should be waking up any minute now. And of course you can, if you want to undo all my work and have a trip to the afterlife, after all."

"Yeah, I'll pass."

Ciri tries to be surreptitious as she steals one of only three remaining biscuits off the plate; Yennefer gives her a look, so she does the only logical thing and abruptly hides the biscuit in her mouth. Jaskier is flooded with the most terrible fondness and can't help but feel she, in some way, reminds him of Geralt.

"Well, then," he says, swallows, and stops avoiding a question that has been tingling in the back of his mind. "No lasting damage, I assume?" he tries to be flippant, but Yennefer waves a dismissive hand.

"You're absolutely fine. I'm very good," she adds with a pointed eyebrow. "There will be some fatigue for a day or two, and your head is probably killing you, but that'll pass. You have a... long life ahead of you."

"Well, thank you both," he says, wrapping an arm around Ciri's shoulders and thus bringing her closer to the last two biscuits, which she immediately takes advantage of. "Hang on, how did Geralt get me here? Oh, gods, what day is it?"

Yennefer snorts. "Relax, you've only been unconscious for about a day. And I portalled you here." She presses her lips into a thin line again, frowning. "When the curse hit you – I felt Geralt's need. So I sought him out, portalled to him, and then brought you both here. _And_ that damn horse, you're welcome."

"Oh..." is all Jaskier says, because that's... that's...

"That need... Geralt must have been truly desperate, out of his mind with it, for me to feel it, even through the djinn bond," Yennefer adds, eyes dark with seriousness.

The djinn is still sometimes a sore point between Yen and Geralt. But they're headed in the right direction. They both know that this bond the djinn forged between them will always be there, will always tie them together, but they've realised they get to choose what they want that bond to be. What they want – _wish_ – to be to each other. They've found friendship. They're learning to love each other on their own terms. Jaskier is so fucking proud of both of them that he could cry.

But that might be whatever potions Yen has pumped him full of.

Yennefer's lips unexpectedly twitch into a smile, which never happens when the djinn is brought up.

"So at least you finally got something good out of the whole djinn shit," she says, and Jaskier hums.

Footsteps shuffle somewhere outside the room, and then Geralt is standing in the doorway, and Jaskier's chest clenches only to fill to bursting with light.

"Geralt...!"

Geralt grips the doorframe, eyes wild, like he's terrified, like he can't bring himself to cross the threshold and step into the room. Like it might not be real.

Guilt and joy crash inside Jaskier, but he doesn't have time to even try and sort them out, because then Geralt is moving, briefly laying a hand on Ciri's head, and then he's right there, on Jaskier's bed, arms wrapped tight around him. He grips Jaskier's head in his hands and presses hard, desperate kisses to his forehead, buries his nose in Jaskier's hair, breathes him, holds him.

"Jaskier..." His voice is scraped raw, emotion exposed and quivering right there on the surface, and Jaskier grips him back, shushes him quietly enough only for Geralt to hear.

Geralt presses his mouth to Jaskier's hair, rocks back and forth with Jaskier in his arms. A moment later he swallows and pulls away, but only enough to wrap one arm around Ciri, pulling her closer from where she'd moved away to give them space.

"Thank you," he tells her, reverent and earnest, and she looks so proud that Jaskier is close to tears all over again.

Geralt turns to Yennefer who puts away the bottle she was kind enough to pretend to be busy with.

"Thank you," he tells her too, solemn, and she smiles.

"My pleasure," she says, the unbothered lightness of her tone lifting something off Geralt's shoulders, so Jaskier rests his head on one of them.

"Fuck, Jaskier," Geralt growls, but crushingly, there's no anger there. "You almost—"

"Ah, but I didn't," says Jaskier, can't help but smile. "And it's all right now! Yen said I'm going to be right as rain in no time. So don't you worry, I intend to stick around forever!"

Yennefer laughs under her breath, drawing Geralt's suspicious squint.

"What?" Jaskier asks.

"Oh, just something you said," she replies flippantly. "Funny – sticking around forever is exactly what landed you here in urgent need of my care."

"Er... what?" asks Jaskier again; even Ciri frowns, puzzled.

"Speak plainly, Yen," growls Geralt.

Clearly, he's not in the mood, but in a way, he probably had a worse night than Jaskier did – Jaskier was at least blissfully unconscious for all the grisly bits. Geralt had a front row seat. Had to carry Jaskier through the portal on the sheer, desperate hope that he would live.

"What do you mean?" asks Ciri, and that seems to soften Yen up.

"Very well. Good news, Geralt! He's not going to die of old age on you," she says in a chipper voice that doesn't stretch enough to mask a hint of genuine smile underneath, and hang on, did she say _not die of old age?_ "And you can stop beating yourself up about overlooking a curse. You said you checked for all human-targeted curses, and you were right, you did get them all. The music box was infused with a curse that didn't affect humans. It was aimed at the fae."

Jaskier stares; something drops inside him and keeps on dropping.

"...what?" he whispers, so quietly he isn't sure Yennefer heard it.

Geralt's grip around him is hard like iron.

Yennefer gives him a soft look. "You're part-fae, Jaskier," she says, her voice patient, and Jaskier's head fills with something thick and dull like cotton. "The curse was meant for the fae. It was also very well hidden, it would have taken a lot of focus for anyone else, even a witcher, to detect its presence. And whoever put it on the box was one sick fuck – the curse would have torn a full-blooded fae apart, turned them inside-out. But you're mostly human, and that saved you. It gave you enough time for Geralt to bring you here, and for me and Ciri to destroy the curse."

Jaskier stares. The world is deathly quiet in his head, and he feels like the air he keeps pulling into his lungs is not enough.

"I'm... part-fae?" he says dumbly.

"A small part, as far as I can tell," says Yennefer, "but yes. You don't have any magic, which is frankly a relief, because I'd rather not imagine the havoc you would cause, especially together with Cirilla. But what you _do_ have is a fae lifespan. Which would explain why you don't seem to age."

"Hah!" says Jaskier weakly as his heart picks up and starts hammering away, something bright blooming in his chest and growing. "I knew that crows feet line was a vicious lie!"

"Ah, but think of all the money you've wasted on skincare products over the—"

"Yen," rasps Geralt, and when Jaskier turns to look at him, his face is deathly pale, eyes wide and wild. "Yen, don't— don't fuck with m— are you sure?"

She sighs curtly, a flash of impatience shooting across her face, but then she gentles.

"Yes," she tells them. "Absolutely sure. It's buried deep, but it's there. So you were right," she adds to Jaskier, a corner of her lips quirking up in a smirk. "You _will_ stick around forever. Unless you continue going around touching cursed items and pissing off all the wrong people, of course."

That thing inside Jaskier's chest turns out to be an entire gods-damn star, and he laughs, joy bubbling up in his throat, bright and unstoppable.

"Jaskier..." says Geralt, voice raw, but so, _so warm_.

Jaskier is laughing, and he thinks he might be crying a little bit, but he isn't sure, because Ciri's arms are around him, and Geralt is pressing a kiss to his forehead and holding him like he's never planning to let go.

And Jaskier is just fine with that.

* * *

The house is perched on the sheer edge of a cliff, because Yennefer is nothing if not dramatic; wind whips at their hair as they walk, Geralt's arm around Jaskier, a vast, silver-sparkling lake stretching below and touching the horizon ahead.

Geralt shields him from the wind, pushes close to his side.

"Are you all right?" he rumbles, deep from his chest, and Jaskier could just fall apart.

"Am I—" Jaskier throws his hands up, laugher catching on his breath. "Am I all right, he asks! Geralt – I'm fucking incredible!"

"Jaskier," Geralt says, eyes so serious they're almost pained. "This is... a lot to take in."

"Yeah," Jaskier agrees, wind whipping at his hair, sobering the rushing of his blood, but only for a moment. "Yeah, it is. But... it's a lot of _good_ , you know? I mean— at least... at least for me."

"It is," says Geralt, voice warm enough to soothe a pooling cool of worry in the back of Jaskier's mind; he presses a kiss to his temple. Slowly, they resume their stroll.

"So... what does it mean? Me being... part-fae." He says it, because he needs to feel it, taste it, put it in his mouth and turn it over his tongue. It tastes odd but really, _really_ good. Like a flavour there's no human name for.

"You heard what Yen said," rumbles Geralt. "You have centuries ahead of you, millennia." He pulls him closer at that, and oh, this is so very nice... "But you still have to be careful. Fae lifespan, but human vulnerability. And I think..."

"Hmm?"

"Remember, a few years ago you were attacked by robbers. They cut you – the blade was pure iron. Your wound took so long to heal... I think you might be a little sensitive to iron."

"What? But I handled your iron blade plenty of times! Oh, har-har, funny," he adds at the look on Geralt's face. "Fuck off, will you."

"Hmm," says Geralt, pulling him closer still. "I think it's a really weak sensitivity. Wounds, not just simple touch. You don't have to worry about it, not many blades are made of pure iron."

"True. Go on, then! I get to spend centuries annoying you, _and_ I get to dance on Valdo Marx's grave! This is a dream come true. What else is there, do you think? Unless— oh, fuck... my music... is it...?"

"No," says Geralt quickly but firmly, catching Jaskier and offering him firm ground before he sinks. "Doesn't work like that. Your music is all you, Jaskier. Only you."

"Oh." Jaskier breathes a little easier, then immediately makes a theatre of it, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Well, that's a relief! So... nothing else?"

"Well..." Geralt's lips quirk in a smile, and Jaskier grins, plastering himself against his side. "You're... hm."

"Oh, go on..."

"You're very beautiful," growls Geralt, and gives him a stern look. "As you well know. Could be a fae thing, but I don't know."

"Well," says Jaskier. "You would be evidence that one can be beautiful without being fae."

Geralt turns his face away, lips pressed into a tight line, and Jaskier laughs quietly into his neck. One day, one day he will train Geralt to accept compliments with the pleasure he deserves. And apparently, as time is of no essence to either of them, he can try for as long as it takes.

That's such a lovely thought.

He bumps Geralt cheerfully.

"I have to say though... you've been fucking a fae for years and you never knew! Some witcher you are!"

Geralt growls at him, and Jaskier grins, wiggles from side to side.

" _Part_ -fae. And you don't exactly look or smell fae, you know," Geralt grumbles, but the corners of his lips curl in a fond smile.

"Oh?" says Jaskier who's always wanted to ask, but for some reason never did. "So what do I smell like?"

Geralt gives him a considering look and a slow, even more considering whiff. "Hmm," he says, rich and warm, like he's savouring the bouquet of a drowsily old vintage from Corvo Bianco, and Jaskier bites down on his own smile. "You smell human, mostly."

Jaskier huffs, but Geralt has a playful twinkle in his eyes.

"You smell human, and like your lute. But you have this... you smell like wildflowers. Especially when you're happy."

"Oh..." whispers Jaskier.

"Mmm. Like a whole field of them by the side of the road. You smell... you smell like love," he says, voice hoarse. "And me. You smell like me."

"Oh, Geralt," says Jaskier, hopeless tenderness welling up in his chest and threatening to burst. "I cannot believe you let me parade all over the Continent smelling like onion."

Geralt huffs a laugh and presses his forehead to Jaskier's, eyes falling closed. Jaskier smiles, tucks windswept silver hair into place only for the wind to sweep it all over again.

"For the record, you still smell like heroics," he hums, fingers tracing a spot where he'd darned Geralt's shirt. "But you smell like love too."

"Hmm."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a mammoth for me! I need to lie down now.
> 
> These idiots make me weak. Please enjoy the fruits of my continuing obsession and emotional ruin.


End file.
